"Not Human In or out": a Personal Observation on Hong Kong-China relations "Not Human In or out": a Personal Observation on Hong Kong-China relations

During China’s Labour Day holiday, millions took to the skies, rails, and highways. Japan, South Korea, and Southeast Asia remained favorites among outbound tourists thanks to their proximity. The Chinese tracks also extended to the farther reaches of Sicily, the pilgrimage routes of northern Spain, and even the “Lysefjorden” of southern Norway.

Hong Kong seemingly no longer holds the appeal it once had among Chinese travelers. But this holiday, surprisingly, many mainlanders still chose Hong Kong as their destination. As a result, hundreds of tourists found themselves trapped in border bottlenecks. The culprit? A tale of two payment systems.

Hong Kong still leans heavily on its “Octopus” card—a stored-value system used for public transport and retail purchases. Mainland China, by contrast, has made a huge leap into a nearly cashless society driven by mobile QR codes. While Hong Kong has begun accommodating QR-code entry for some transit systems, this method relies heavily on stable internet access, which could easily encounter an outage at a small, crowded station.

By around 2 p.m. on May 2, 265 thousand travelers had entered Hong Kong. The Futian checkpoint—known on the Hong Kong side as Lok Ma Chau—bore the brunt of the congestion.

Crowds waiting to board metro.

Mainland visitors blamed the Hong Kong authorities for poor preparation. Hong kongers, for their part, criticized visitors for prioritizing convenience over cultural courtesy.

These mutual grievances were nothing new, like mainland Chinese would complain about Hong Kong’s lack of public seating, Hongkongers, in turn, criticize the mainland habit of squatting in public spaces as uncivilized. This back-and-forth has become a recurring feature in the post-handover relationship, entwined and ultimately unresolved. In Mandarin, there's a word for it — “拧巴,” Ning Ba. Twisted. Knotted. A persistent tangle of expectations and disappointments.

A “Qualified” New Hongkonger

France has just announced it would raise the bar for naturalization. Starting from January 1 2026, prospective citizens must attain a B2 level in French, upper-intermediate, and pass a civics exam testing their knowledge of French history, cultural institutions, and republican values.

I once posed a similar question to a friend in Hong Kong: What makes someone a bona fide new immigrant here? “Oh, easy,” he said with a grin. “Just speak Cantonese and love Hong Kong.”

By those standards, I barely meet the qualifications. My Cantonese cannot meet the “fluent” level, and my attachment to Hong Kong doesn’t quite match the bond I feel with the mainland.

At a recent Hong Kong wedding I attended with some friends from college, I noticed that apart from me and two other women, both mainlanders now working in the city, it was hard to spot a fourth guest whose first language was Mandarin. Yet even in that setting, everyone instinctively switched to Mandarin to accommodate us. Their courtesy only deepened my sense of awkwardness.

Later, when I mentioned that I live in Shenzhen and cross the border daily, a journalist friend joked, “It’s because of the people like you that Hong Kong’s economy is going downhill!” It was sharp but partly true.

Indeed, the city’s standing as a global financial hub is under pressure. As someone who makes a living by writing, I hardly feel responsible for such a grand shift. Still, countless others of my precarious social stratum will end up shouldering the fallout.

Drawn by comparatively generous wages, a steady stream of mainland Chinese workers continues to cross into Hong Kong in pursuit of opportunities. Not far behind them is Chinese capital, calibrated, ambitious, and increasingly assertive.

In May 2023, Chinese food delivery giant Meituan entered the Hong Kong market under the name Keeta. Within a year, it had seized 85 percent of the local market share. Two years later, the once-dominant Deliveroo retreated, effectively edged out. Keeta’s triumph was based upon a relentless price war with armies of deep discounts and waived delivery fees that left few competitors standing.

But victories in markets are rarely without casualties.

According to local media outlet CollectiveHK, Keeta's dominance came at the expense of riders and restaurants alike. One former Deliveroo courier, who once earned HK$20,000 a month with just five and a half hours of work per day, now earns half as much for nearly double the hours under Keeta.

Restaurants, meanwhile, face an existential squeeze as a wave of new mainland chains crowds the culinary landscape. Among them is HEYTEA, a Chinese boba tea brand just opening its 11th branch in Hong Kong.

Heading North

There was a time when Hong Kong loomed large in the mainland imagination, summed up by a phrase: Zhi Zui Jin Mi (纸醉金迷)—a haze of paper wealth and intoxicating pleasures. Luxury goods, fashion trends, and much of what was considered cutting-edge culture filtered through this international port before making their way north. Mainland tourists would arrive with only one suitcase, but returning loaded with bags piled high—a scene that earned them the local nickname “locusts in migration.”

That flood of commerce also spawned its share of gray-market industries, like smuggling.

The film The Crossing (guo chun tian/过春天 ) depicted a messy life of this group. Peipei, a teenage protagonist, leads a double life: by day, she’s a cross-border student commuting between Shenzhen and Hong Kong; by night, she’s a smuggler.

In smuggling parlance, guo chun tian—literally “crossing the springtime”—means successfully slipping goods past customs. Electronics were once a prime target: mobile phones, cameras—cheaper and newer in Hong Kong—tucked discreetly under clothing to be flipped for profit in the mainland.

Those days have largely faded. Tighter border checks and Hong Kong’s eroding price edge have made the game less lucrative.

The southbound tide—once a symbol of aspiration—has ebbed in recent years. In its place, a new current flows in reverse: northward.(北上)

Geographically, the distance between Hong Kong and Shenzhen is almost negligible—hardly more than a river’s breadth, as a map would quickly show:

The two cities are linked by eight border checkpoints, connected via buses, ferries, high-speed rail, and metro lines. Among them, the Lo Wu and Futian crossings are served directly by Hong Kong’s MTR East Rail Line. Even for eight-year-olds, the border-crossing process has been simple: board the train, ride to the end of the line, and “guo guan,” which carries another meaning in Chinese, to overcome a challenge.

For mainland Chinese, all it takes is a “Hong Kong and Macao Travel Permit” with valid endorsement. For Hongkongers, the requirement is slightly different: in addition to their local ID, they need a specific document, the Mainland Travel Permit for Hong Kong and Macau Residents.

But despite the northward wave of promotions and advertisements spread by the Shenzhen government and merchants, some Hongkongers still lack interest.

There are those living in HK Island area who have never even set foot in Kowloon, let alone crossed into Shenzhen. If they’re going to take a rare vacation, why not opt for Japan or South Korea—close, affordable, and culturally familiar? Or fly farther afield to the UK or Australia, where the crowds thin and the landscapes broaden? With visa-free access to 174 countries and areas, a Hong Kong passport opens far more gates than just those at the border.

And for some, the decision not to go north is more than logistical—it’s ideological. To “stay and spend” is to show loyalty, to support the local economy.

One Country, Two Systems (一国两制)

I recently took a trip to Europe with a group of friends I met in Hong Kong, which included both local and new Hongkongers. While we were there, some Europeans would ask us, “Where are you from?” I instinctively replied, “China.” After a brief pause, my friend, a local Hongkonger, added emphatically, “But we’re from Hong Kong.”

The moment was tinged with awkwardness. We both recognized the subtle yet profound difference in our responses—a difference rooted in our identities and the emotional complexities that accompany them. One European friend appeared puzzled, striving to understand without offending.

“What’s the difference?” he asked.

The answer lies in the divergent identities and values shaped by two distinct systems. Officially, it's known as “One Country, Two Systems.”

This dichotomy is reflected in the differing historical milestones that resonate with people from mainland China and Hong Kong. For mainlanders, 1997—the year of Hong Kong's handover from British to Chinese sovereignty—is paramount. For many Hongkongers, however, the years 2014 and 2019 hold greater significance.

Since 1997, Hong Kong has seen four Chief Executives, all selected by an Election Committee dominated by pro-Beijing members, ensuring the central government's preferred candidates prevail. Pro-democracy advocates often refer to this as a “Clique Election.”

In 2014, legal scholar Benny Tai Yiu-ting along with some other academics initiated the “Occupy Central with Love and Peace” movement, advocating for universal suffrage. They wanted a leader who truly love Hong Kong, someone they truly believed in, instead of a puppet selected by Chinese Communist Party.

Conversely, pro-Beijing factions and mainland media labeled the movement as “illegal,” focusing on the disruptions rather than the underlying demands.

Internationally, the protests became known as the “Umbrella Movement,” named after the umbrellas protesters used to shield themselves from police pepper spray and tear gas. The umbrella evolved into a symbol of resistance, though some Western media's portrayal of it as a color revolution drew criticism for oversimplifying the movement's objectives.

In 2019, Hong Kong witnessed its largest-ever protests in response to a proposed extradition bill that would allow suspects to be sent to mainland China for trial. Critics feared this would erode Hong Kong's judicial independence.

On April 28, tens of thousands took to the streets. By June 9, the number had swelled past a million. A week later, on June 16, over two million marched—an unprecedented mobilization in Hong Kong’s protest history. Sit-ins, campus demonstrations, strikes, and class boycotts unfolded constantly across the city.

What began as a protest against a single piece of legislation spiraled into something more chaotic, more combustible. Shops were vandalized, restaurants shuttered, and bystanders caught in crossfire. Clashes between protesters and police became frequent.

Mainland media, when they chose to report on the events, focused almost exclusively on the violence of the demonstrators—images of masked youths torching barricades, or scuffling with police. And they called the young protestors, “Feiqing (废青)”, meaning “hopeless youth.”

About the police, little was said of the “black cops” as called by Hongkongers. Instead, law enforcement officers were cast as beleaguered civil servants, heroically defending public order in a city on the brink.

But in Hong Kong, the word “police” carries with it a particular kind of gravity—less a symbol of law and order than a byword for mistrust. The profession, long regarded with suspicion, has become something close to a social taboo. My friend Kimberly, whose father served in the force for over two decades, told me what his father said to her, “He always told me to stay away from cops. No good ever comes from being close to them.” It wasn’t a joke.

Accusations of violence, abuse of power, and misconduct are not merely whispered allegations—they are stitched into the public memory. So widespread is this perception that The Witness, a Hong Kong-based independent media outlet, has dedicated a section of its coverage to documenting police scandals.

A Tightly Controlled Hong Kong

On June 30, 2020, the National Security Law was formally enacted in Hong Kong, criminalizing acts of secession, subversion, terrorism, and collusion with foreign or external forces. The legislation, added as an annex to Hong Kong’s Basic Law, effectively redefined the city’s legal and political landscape.

This was not the first attempt to legislate national security in the territory. Back in 2003, Article 23—which proposed seven offenses related to endangering national security and government authority—prompted half a million Hongkongers to take to the streets. The massive public backlash forced the Hong Kong government to shelve the bill.

But history, as it often does, found a way back.

In 2024, Article 23 was reintroduced and passed into law. The new provisions expanded the definitions of offenses and penalties dramatically: violators could now face life imprisonment, particularly in cases involving so-called collusion with foreign forces. In scope and in spirit, it marked the end of a long, contested chapter and the beginning of a more tightly controlled future for this special administrative region.

Crossing the border now, notices stuck on the wall include not just the usual signs prohibiting items like cannabis and meat products, but also wanted posters offering substantial rewards —1 million HKD per case.

Wanted notices on the walls of HK-SZ borders.

For instance, in Lau Ka-man’s case, the charge given by the HK Police is, “publishing articles in the capacity of a core member of the Hong Kong Democracy Council, giving speeches and publishing posts or videos on social media, advocating separating HKSAR from PRC and requested foreign countries to impose sanctions or blockade, engage in other hostile activities against the PRC and the HKSAR.”

And she at the same time is wanted by the Independent Commission Against Corruption of HK, for “having engaged in illegal conduct at the 2021 Legislative Council General Election on 16 December 2021, by carrying out an activity in public, namely broadcasting a discussion with the other three persons, which incited other persons not to vote at the said election.”

Beyond such high-profile cases, ordinary citizens also have felt the impact. Businesses labeled as supportive of the pro-democracy movements have faced boycotts on Chinese social media (often tagged as Yellow). Public expressions of dissent have become taboo. National “patriotic” education has been integrated into school curricula, further blurring the lines between Hong Kong and mainland China.

There was a time I believed Hong Kong to be China’s last holyland for democracy—and for a while, it was. Many in Hong Kong attribute the erosion of their freedoms to a wave of mainland Chinese migrants—those who arrived in droves, yet made little effort to understand, much less respect, the city’s cultural and political fabrics.

But how many of those same mainlanders had ever tasted democracy themselves? How many had been allowed even the smallest act of defiance against authority?

The 2022 White Paper Movement—named for the blank sheets of paper silently held aloft in protests against China’s strict zero-COVID policies—was among the rare flashes of political awakening in recent memory.

There's a Chinese saying: “Zhu Bajie looking in the mirror—not human in or out (猪八戒照镜子, 里外不是人)”, which embodies duality and internal conflict (Zhu Bajie/Pigsy, a character from the classic novel Journey to the West). I often feel like a modern-day Pigsy—alienated from mainstream values in China, while still emotionally connected to it, and not fully embraced by Hong Kong either. I'm not alone in this liminal space, yearning for a day when the walls that divide might come down, and people on two sides can finally see each other.

（This article is written by Kat and edited by 使明各. You can contact the author at kat.elephantroom@gmail.com）